


Yesterday I Was So Blue

by lotherington



Series: Long Ago and Far Away [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1940s, AU, Historical, M/M, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Grinning, John nipped Sherlock’s neck. ‘It’s just Easter lunch with your mother.’</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>‘Yes, which will turn into Easter-just-stay-for-the-game-of-cricket and Easter dinner and Easter drinks and Easter-oh-why-don’t-you-just-stay-the-night and Easter-Easter Monday at church and Easter-very-much-not-spending-my-leave-in-bed-with-you.’</i>
</p>
<p>WWII AU. Easter, 1944. John and Sherlock very much don't manage to leave 221b on time for Easter lunch in Surrey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yesterday I Was So Blue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very sorry about the wait for this! Finals are now over forever and things should be back to normal, pretty much. The title is from [My Hat's on the Side of My Head](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vM5DkHy0yJo).

_Easter, 1944_

‘I could kiss you forever,’ John said, his lips against one of Sherlock’s freckled shoulders as they lay together in bed.

‘No you couldn’t. You’d get bored.’ Sherlock licked his index finger and turned the page of the dusty book he was reading.

‘I wouldn’t.’ John held Sherlock’s arm out and kissed his way from Sherlock’s elbow up to the soft skin just below his armpit.

‘Yes you would.’ Sherlock squinted at a diagram in his book. ‘Or I would.’

‘That’s infinitely more likely,’ John replied, resting his hand on the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, stroking absently with his thumb. Sherlock turned and kissed John’s forehead.

The light curtains were still drawn against the day, John having pulled back the blackouts so that Sherlock could read. The sun was making a valiant effort and from the warm rays that fell across the bed, it looked as though the day was going to be a nice one.

‘What time ought we to leave?’ John asked, tangling his legs with Sherlock’s under the covers.

‘Mmm, quarter past never.’

Grinning, John nipped Sherlock’s neck. ‘It’s just Easter lunch with your mother.’

‘Yes, which will turn into Easter-just-stay-for-the-game-of-cricket and Easter dinner and Easter drinks and Easter-oh-why-don’t-you-just-stay-the-night and Easter-Easter Monday at church and Easter-very-much-not-spending-my-leave-in-bed-with-you.’

John laughed and kissed Sherlock’s shoulder again. ‘You really are quite mad.’

Sherlock threw his book to the floor where it landed with a soft whump on the rug. He rolled over to face John and pulled him close, hands gripping his waist. ‘I prefer eccentric.’

‘No you don’t.’ John rested his right hand on the curve of Sherlock’s backside and shifted his head closer to Sherlock’s on the pillow they were sharing. ‘You enjoy telling people that you’re mad, just to see what they’ll do.’

Sherlock laughed darkly, coaxing John into a deep kiss. ‘You’re one of the very few who still haven’t run screaming.’

‘Well, you’re really not as terrifying as you pretend to be.’

‘Not to you.’

‘No,’ John said quietly, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s. ‘You need a bath. And a shave.’

‘And a cigarette.’

‘Oh, you always need a cigarette.’ John kissed Sherlock once more before sitting up and swinging his legs out of bed. He was in the middle of stretching his back out, one hand resting over the scar on his shoulder when Sherlock’s long arms wrapped around his waist and he was tugged back down, Sherlock straddling him.

‘I didn’t say you could get up,’ Sherlock said, smiling and pinning John by his wrists. 

John laughed. 'You're insufferable. Come on, we need to be in Surrey by half past eleven, it's already nearly nine and you're driving, so it's highly likely we're going to be late as it is.'

Sherlock bent down, pressing his lips gently to John's neck, moving down and brushing light kisses over John's knotted scar. 'I didn't know you were so eager to spend time with my mother and brother and that little troop of lost boys she’s taken in.' He licked John's skin, following the complex pattern the scar had formed into.

'Oh -- _oh_ , I'm really not, but we're expected and it's only polite--'

'I don't care about polite.' Sherlock slipped his hand inside John's loose pyjama bottoms, trailing his lips downwards to tease one of John's nipples.

'Bloody hell, Sherlock--' John arched his back, fingers clutching at Sherlock's sleep-ruffled curls. 'Oh, stop it, that's not fair -- _I_ care about polite, you can't just tell someone you're coming to lunch and then not turn up on time, it could ruin the dinner and there are--' John whimpered as Sherlock tightened his hand around John's arousal, his mouth moving back to the scar, '--there are -- _Christ_ \-- there are the children to think about, they ought to have a routine and probably do and _oh_ , you maddening bugger, _more_.' 

Sherlock smirked, sucking John's lower lip into his mouth, twisting his wrist at the end of each of his long strokes to John's prick. 'There? Is that right?' 

John nodded, his eyes closed tightly as he bit down on the knuckle of his left index finger, his other hand stroking feverishly at Sherlock's hair and neck and collarbone. 'More,' he gasped, arching up into Sherlock's touch. 

'More?' Sherlock's expression was entirely too smug. 'But we could be late and that would never do--'

John pulled Sherlock down into a fierce kiss, pushing at Sherlock's torso until their positions were reversed and John was on top of Sherlock, kneeling in between his strong, long legs, bare of any nightclothes, as was usual. 'I hate you,' John whispered, grabbing the tin of petroleum jelly off the bedside table, coating two fingers and sliding both steadily into Sherlock, who spread his legs wider, eyes fluttering closed, sinful mouth falling open. ‘You’re demanding and infuriating and--’

‘You wouldn’t have me any different, as you so constantly remind me,’ Sherlock interrupted, hand grasping at John’s hip. ‘That’s enough, you had me last night.’

John laughed, kissing the spot of skin just above Sherlock’s rapidly-beating heart. ‘As though I could forget.’ They’d taken advantage of the fact that Mrs Hudson had gone back to Kent over the Easter weekend to stay with her sister and spent a long, quiet hour wrapped up in each other on the sofa, kissing and touching and exploring together by lamplight before making their stumbling way into the bedroom. 

‘Lie back,’ John ordered, the curtains fluttering in the breeze from the open window. 

Sherlock sank back into their shared pillow, drawing one knee up to his chest, gazing at John with amused, sleepy eyes. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Give me a good seeing to and I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour today.’ 

‘You’re beyond hope, you really are.’ John took his pyjama bottoms off, smiled and bent to press his lips to Sherlock’s neck, breathing in tobacco and stale smoke and tannin as he lined himself up and breached Sherlock’s body. He swallowed Sherlock’s gasps and the quiet moan he made with another kiss. 

‘God, Sherlock, you’re...’ John gasped and arched his back, maneuvering Sherlock by his waist, seeking the best angle for them both. ‘This still feels as though...’ He pulled back and pushed in again, the snap of his hips sharp. ‘I’m still not quite used to it again,’ he said breathlessly, crying out when Sherlock rested his feet flat on the bed and raised his hips off the mattress, allowing John to slide a couple of inches deeper. 

Sherlock moaned at the sensation, the sound guttural, primal. He dropped his head back, hands fisted in the sheets underneath him, moaning again when John’s teeth grazed over his throat in a slow line upwards. 

'John,' Sherlock breathed, turning his head, trying to catch John's lips with his. After a moment he succeeded, sliding his tongue against John's, bringing one hand to grasp the back of John's neck, fingers clenching and releasing feverishly. 'Please, I...'

'What?' John murmured, moving his hips slowly, stroking the sweep of Sherlock's jaw with his thumb. 'What is it, tell me what you need.'

Shaking his head, Sherlock pulled John into another kiss, biting at his lips. 'I love you,' he moaned, falling back onto the bed. 'I never said it and I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

'Shh.' John slowed his pace, shifted his knees on the bed so that he was closer to Sherlock and gathered him into his arms, despite the sudden flash of pain in his shoulder. 'Shh,' he said, stroking Sherlock's hair, pulling Sherlock's face into his neck. 'Shh, it's alright, it's alright, don't be silly.' John kissed Sherlock's temple and began to move his hips again, thrusting steadily. 

'You always told me,' Sherlock said. 'You always said, always--'

'Stop it,' John said firmly, kissing Sherlock again. 'Don't get yourself worked up over nothing, I knew, I always knew, even though you never said it. It doesn't matter now, alright? It doesn't matter.' 

Sherlock nodded. 'Alright. I... I missed you so much whilst you were away and I just remembered how _miserable_ I was the whole time, even though I pretended I wasn't.'

John touched his lips to Sherlock's, then brushed them against Sherlock's cheekbones and his eyelids and then his brow. 'I know,' he said, holding Sherlock tightly for a brief moment. 

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ John smiled against Sherlock’s temple. ‘It’s not natural on you.’

Sherlock brought the palm of his hand down on John’s behind. ‘Cheek,’ he muttered, though he smiled, the unexpectedly serious moment fading as, laughing, John began to thrust again. 

Sherlock smiled and stroked John’s chest, lingering with his fingertips over John’s scar. ‘This is extraordinary,’ he whispered, pressing a reverent kiss to the knotted skin.

‘Extraordinarily hideous, perhaps.’ John gasped, open-mouthed, as he pressed himself fully inside Sherlock, kneeling straight up, digging his hands under Sherlock’s sweaty lower back and holding tightly.

Moaning, Sherlock shook his head, his fingers playing at the edge of the scar. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s interesting and... and good, and part of you.’ He let his hand drop down John’s chest and moved it to wrap around his own cock, closing his eyes tightly as he applied a tight pressure. 

‘I love you,’ John said, stroking Sherlock’s hips with his thumbs. ‘Do you want to turn onto your front? I can’t promise I’ll--’

‘Yes, yes.’ Sherlock pushed at John’s chest with the sole of his foot. ‘Your leg will be fine, don’t fuss, roll me over.’

John smiled and pulled back, out of Sherlock. ‘Roll yourself over, you lazy bugger,’ he said, pinching Sherlock’s thigh. Groaning, Sherlock flopped onto his front then pulled himself to his knees, holding onto the headboard and splaying his legs. 

‘Please.’

‘Oh, isn’t that a lovely sight,’ John murmured, pushing his thumb inside Sherlock’s reddened hole.

‘John.’

‘Mm?’ John licked his way up Sherlock’s neck and nibbled at his ear.

‘John, oh, _please_ , I...’

Laughing, John stroked his hand round Sherlock’s side and onto his stomach, curling his right hand around Sherlock’s length, twisting his thumb at the same time.

‘John! Oh, we’ll be late--’

‘I’ve made my peace with that,’ John said, kissing Sherlock’s neck. He did relent, however, pulling his thumb out and pushing inwards quickly, knocking the breath out of Sherlock’s lungs in a surprised gasp. Sherlock’s fingers slipped on the headboard and he only just caught his balance as John began to establish a quick pace, the springs of the mattress squeaking their protest, the rickety wooden bedframe creaking and moving a fraction of an inch with each thrust that John made.

Cheerful shouts rang out from the street outside their open window. The breeze sighed into the room and cooled their hot, damp skin, causing gooseflesh to form on John’s thighs and Sherlock’s forearms. Music began to play from somewhere a few doors down.

‘I... I...’ Sherlock didn’t manage to articulate whatever he wanted to say and pushed back into John instead, his right arm moving furiously, hand out of sight. 

‘Beautiful,’ John groaned, fingers digging into Sherlock’s hips. ‘Wonderful, brilliant, mine.’ He pushed in harder and faster still, careering towards the edge, losing his rhythm as he hissed Sherlock’s name, his muscles tightening, toes curling, his face contorting as he came. 

‘John!’ Sherlock exclaimed, his voice a deep cry. He gasped and panted, still pushing back insistently onto John as he rode out his own climax, his left hand gripping tight onto the headboard. ‘Oh,’ he moaned, sliding his knees back and pushing them outwards until he rested on his stomach on top of the tangled mess of sheets.

John sank down to lie half on the mattress and half over Sherlock, kissing the back of Sherlock’s neck, the taste of salt coming away on his lips. ‘That was quite something,’ he said quietly, nudging Sherlock’s damp curls away from his nape with the tip of his nose, one protective hand on Sherlock’s waist.

‘I feel slow and stupid,’ Sherlock muttered in reply, wriggling closer to John. 

‘Oh, I’ve done well, then,’ John said, grinning against Sherlock’s skin.

‘What’s that that’s playing outside?’

John lifted his head to listen. ‘George Formby.’

Sherlock laughed, pulling John’s arm around him and grabbing John’s hand, inspecting the lines and moles and marks and scars on it. ‘Glad that didn’t start up earlier. I’d have been quite put off.’ 

Laughing, John kissed the skin behind Sherlock’s ear. ‘Your mother’s going to have us for breakfast. We’re running disastrously late.’

‘Fashionably,’ Sherlock returned, tilting his head back for a kiss. ‘Don’t try telling me that wasn’t worth it.’

‘No, that was very much worth any telling-off from your mother we’re sure to get. And any raised eyebrow and exhalation of breath from Mycroft and any righteous indignation from little Mary.’

‘Well there you are. Go and draw me a bath. And pass me my cigarettes.’

‘You are entirely horrid,’ John said, kissing Sherlock once more and tapping his backside. He did, however find Sherlock’s cigarettes and lighter on the floor on Sherlock’s side of the bed, underneath the forgotten book from earlier, and lit one for him, placing it between his reddened lips. ‘I’ll call you when the bath’s ready.’ 

Sherlock nodded, one side of his mouth pulling upwards when John pressed several kisses to his chest before getting up and walking into the bathroom, barely limping at all.


End file.
